The Psycho Billionaire

Chapter 3: The Billionaire's Claim

The air in the room felt thick, like it could hurt you. Elara stood on shaky legs, her face red from Julian's steady, dark stare. The silk dress she wore felt like a cold layer of water on her skin, leaving her completely bare in front of the man who now held her future in his hands.

Julian didn't move.

He stood just a few inches away, his body warmth spreading in waves. He looked at her from head to toe—slowly, carefully—as if checking a fancy machine for problems.

"Turn around," he ordered.

His voice was deep and rough, like it was settling deep in her bones.

"I'm not a doll, Julian," Elara whispered, her voice breaking.

She tried to pull the fabric lower, but it was useless. It was meant to show off, to make her feel exposed, and to tempt him.

Julian stepped closer, his chest almost touching her shoulders.

He reached out, his big, warm, rough hand grabbing her hip. His thumb pressed gently into her skin, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to make her gasp. The touch was like an electric shock, sending a hot feeling straight to her center.

"You're whatever I say you are in this room," he whispered, his breath barely touching her ear.

"Right now, you're mine to look at. Turn around."

Elara's heart pounded in her chest as she slowly turned.

Behind her, she heard the soft sound of his breathing. Then, she felt it—the light touch of his knuckles sliding down her spine. She shivered, her eyes closing.

Julian's touch was slow and careful.

He ran his fingers down the curve of her back, then lower, to the place where the silk barely covered. He leaned in, pressing a rough, dry kiss against the sensitive skin behind her ear.

"You smell like the soap I bought for you," he growled, his hand moving to her stomach, pulling her close against his strong, muscular body.

"I spent three years wondering if your skin would be this soft. I spent three years imagining what you'd sound like when I finally claimed you."

Elara's head fell back against his shoulder. "

You're crazy," she managed to say, even though her body was leaning into him, wanting the very thing she was supposed to be afraid of.

"I told you before, Elara.

I'm a collector," Julian said, his voice getting deeper. He turned her to face him, his hands moving up to cup her face. His thumbs traced her bottom lip, just enough to show the wetness of her teeth.

His eyes were no longer cold.

They were full of a dark, wild hunger that made her legs feel like jelly. Without warning, he kissed her hard. It wasn't a gentle kiss. It was a crash. It tasted like expensive whiskey, secrets, and a strong need that left her breathless. He kissed her like he wanted to swallow her whole, his tongue sweeping into her mouth to take everything. Elara let out a soft, broken sound, her fingers getting tangled in his dark hair. She hated him, she really did, but the fire he was starting in her was more powerful than any drug.

Julian pulled back just a little, his forehead pressing against hers.

His chest was moving fast, his eyes dark and wide.

"This is the deal, Elara," he growled, his grip on her face tightening.

"You act like you're supposed to. You stay in this bed. You let me take what I want whenever I want. In return, your father lives. You get to keep your life, even if it's in a fancy cage."

"And if I can't?

" she whispered, her lips swollen and tingling.

Julian leaned in, his teeth lightly grazing the spot on her neck where the heavy diamond necklace he'd left for her would rest.

"Then I'll remind you why they call me a monster. And believe me, darling, you won't like the ways I find to make you give in."

He lifted her up, throwing her onto the black silk sheets.

As he climbed over her, his hands pinned her wrists above her head, Elara realized the truth. The debt wasn't just about money. It was about her soul. And Julian Blackwood would never stop until he had every piece of it.

The air inside Blackwood Manor in the morning didn’t smell like the outside world. It felt like it had been filtered, clean and artificial, with a hint of ozone from the high-tech security system. Elara walked through the second-floor gallery, her bare feet making no sound on the warm marble floors. She was searching for a way out, or maybe just a way to feel like she still existed in a world that wasn’t just defined by Julian’s presence. Every door she passed was built right into the wall, without handles, and had small, glowing red pads that activated as she walked by.

She stopped in front of a huge window that looked out over the cliffside.

Below, the Hudson River was a swirling strip of dark gray, and the mist clung to the trees like funeral cloths. It was beautiful in a way that made her throat feel tight—like a landscape trapped in a picture, just like herself. Then she realized the manor wasn’t built for comfort. It was built to watch. The glass was everywhere, and she felt like she was on display, locked in a jar. She wondered if Julian was looking at her right now from one of the hidden cameras she suspected were hidden in the ceiling lights.

She found herself in a long hallway filled with artwork.

As a conservator, her instinct was to get close, to examine the brushstrokes and the age of the paint. Her heart raced when she saw a small, late-period Turner—a painting that had disappeared from private auctions three years ago. Beside it was a modern piece, a wild explosion of red and black ink. It took her a moment to realize the artist was a woman who had vanished from public life shortly after being linked to Blackwood Industries. A cold sweat came over her. Julian didn’t just collect art; he collected people. He found those who were alive and vibrant, and he brought them here to be frozen in time.

The silence was broken by the soft hum of a hidden motor.

A wall panel slid open at the end of the hallway, revealing Julian’s private study. He wasn’t inside, but the room felt like it was filled with his presence. The smell of bourbon and old leather was thick in the air. Elara stepped inside, her heart pounding. On his desk sat a single file folder with her name on it.

She shouldn’t open it.

She knew what would happen if she dug into Julian’s secrets. But seeing her own name in his handwriting—bold, sharp, and strong—was like hearing a siren. She reached out, her hands shaking as she opened the folder. Inside weren’t just financial records or a contract. There were drawings.

Dozens of them.

They were of her.

Not the Elara who sat in front of him in a dress, but Elara at the gallery, Elara drinking coffee at a street vendor, Elara laughing with a friend. He hadn’t just been watching her—he had studied her like a man trying to memorize a prayer. She wasn’t a random choice for a debt. She had been a long-term project.

The truth hit her like a punch, stealing the air from her lungs.

The label the tabloids gave Julian—“psycho”—wasn’t just an exaggeration of his business actions. It was a description of his mind. She closed the folder as the lights in the room dimmed and a familiar, low voice came from behind her.

“I don’t remember giving you permission to be in this room, Elara.”

She froze.

The trap hadn’t just closed—it had been built around her for years.